


The case of the House Cleaner

by IrregularOfBakerSt (TheIrregularOfBakerSt)



Series: The Fox of Baker Street [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Mentions of the Little Prince, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-07
Updated: 2016-01-07
Packaged: 2018-05-11 17:08:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5635018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheIrregularOfBakerSt/pseuds/IrregularOfBakerSt





	The case of the House Cleaner

 

**Christmas Eve, 2009**

"Oi Foxie..."

"Mizzle, what's the craic?"

"Always 90, child, but look, we're all going down to Baker Street's subway tonight, better come with us."

"Why Baker Street?"

"Safest one."

"Ah, because of the killer?"

"Yup. Coming?"

"Aye, sure. It's feckin' cold anyway, the more we are, the better."

"Yeah, fuck. If it's not a blade it's the damn snow tonight."

The Irish-born teenager - she was actually almost in her 20's, but looked much younger - followed her friend to Baker Street. She was a stray since a few years already, street smart and capable to defend herself, but just because of it she perfectly knew that nothing was truer than the old saying: united we stand, divided we fall.  
It was a well known fact to all the Homeless in London that the detective Sherlock Holmes paid good money for minor jobs he was too good or too busy to do on his own, so while the disappearing of unwanted people was overlooked by the authorities, they hoped to at least get him on the case.

When Foxie and Mizzle joined the others, the word of yet another missing person was already spreading. It was getting to their nerves, as not even the youngest were spared, nor the strongest seemed to be able to resist. The mysterious kidnapper had a way to get to everyone. A group of strays who worked for Sherlock Holmes had sent him texts about the last murder - now, I say murder because they all were quite sure it was a killer, although no corpse had ever been found. They immediately received a reply, confirming the detective's commitment.  
At the time, Sherlock wasn't a favorite of the newspapers, his times with the blogger yet to come, and even between the Homeless of his Network, not many could tell what he looked like. Foxie was terribly curious and really hoped for this to be her chance to see him, at one point. First of all, the stories she'd heard about him sounded incredibly interesting and second, brilliant as she had always been, the ginger knew she could be useful to him and of course wouldn't have minded the money.

It had been a man around his 70's, known as Bugs, to first receive a reply from the detective. The Network had no real hierarchy, responding directly and exclusively to Sherlock Holmes, but if anyone was to represent them in front of the young genius, Bugs was the man. Dignified in his poverty by a gentleman's behavior and the cleanest appearance possible, given his conditions, the old man was the less likely to cause any time loss to the ever so impatient detective, going straight to the point and remaining calm and collected, a habit he had acquired in the army and never really lost. Long story short, he had never claimed the title of King of the Homeless, but that was how they all referred to him.

_Meet me at Bart's, 30 minutes. SH_

Foxie saw it as the perfect chance.  
The old man was fond of her, because of her general kindness and quick mind, so she dared asking: "Bugs...I know I'm not part of the Network, but do you think it would be a problem if I came with you?"  
Her voice betrayed the hope behind the request, and he smiled, shaking his head a bit.  
"Alright child, I could use some company, anyway. But keep quiet unless he tells you otherwise, mh?"  
The ginger jumped up a bit in an outburst of enthusiasm and gave him a grateful smile , bringing two fingers to her mouth as to mimic the sewing of her heart-shaped lips.

Exactly 25 minutes later, the two strays were behind the Saint Bart's hospital, waiting for Sherlock Holmes.

\---

Not too far from there, the detective had grabbed his coat and left the 221b of Baker Street, a flat he was momentarily occupying by the grace of the landlady, Mrs. Hudson, a motherly old woman who owed him a favor and was all too happy to have him around and spoil him a bit. It was not that he couldn't afford to pay for the apartment on his own, but his elder brother had taken too much of a worry on his habits and so, in order to get rid of a suffocating surveillance and regain access to the bank account that Mycroft had so thoughtfully blocked, he had agreed to look for a flatmate: a research that, as of now, had proven much more difficult than expected since the rent was amazingly low, but the idea of living with Sherlock and his eccentricities had discouraged most of the candidates.

  
The detective let out a sigh as he glanced at the living room one last time before he closed the door. Most of his stuff was still laying on the floor in cardboard boxes. If he didn't find someone in a short time, he was soon going to be forced to go back to his parent's house: he couldn't take advantage of Mrs. Hudson's  kindness for much longer and it wouldn't have been worth it, anyway, if his freedom had to be spoiled by Mycroft's too often visits and by the spies he continuously tried to place behind him.

About those, he struggled a bit to shake one off his tail, before he could finally join Bugs at Bart's.  Just as Sherlock had expected, the old man was punctual as a swiss watch. A little less expected was the presence of a young woman, someone he didn't recall being part of the Homeless Network.

  
"There you are, good evening." he said, addressing Bugs, but his eyes were already scanning the figure of the ginger: doll faced, she was almost in her twenties although at the first sight of a non observant eye she could easily appear as a 15 years old upperclass runaway. Of course, it wasn't for Sherlock to commit such a mistake: healthy and of a decent appearence, she must have not been a stray for too long, probably no more than 4 years. She was flashing him a self confident smile and her body language revealed curiosity and expectancies, but nothing in her demeanor spoke of a spoiled brat in search for an adventure and the scars left on her wrists and hands by various cigarette burns told instead the story of repeated abuses, left behind with a rather radical choice.  
"I don't believe we've ever met before - he said, now talking to her directly - the name is Sherlock Holmes, and you are?"

  
The woman jumped up a bit as the consulting detective, much younger than what she had imagined, spoke to her with such a profound voice. She had been smiling since the moment he had come out of his cab, not a polite expression dictated by the circumstances, but a honest, open smile. The way he moved and the sparkle of intelligence in his eyes had her immediately hooked, because as much as she loved her absurd, fragile and to be honest rather smelly 'family', it wasn't easy to find between them someone with an outstanding mind , while Sherlock Holmes promised to be an extremely effective diversion from a routine of struggle, hunger and pointless small talk. She had raised one hand, thinking of offering it for a handshake, but then she considered it wasn't clean enough and dropped it back to her side, not without a blush: "Foxie" she said, with an accent that, despite being watered down by the years spent in London, still betrayed  her Northern Irish origins "they call me Foxie. It's a pleasure to meet you, Sir."


End file.
